712 


MIRIAM 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


BY 


JOHN   GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 


BOSTON: 
FIELDS,    OS  GO  CD,    &    CO. 

187  i. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870, 

BY  JOHN    CREENLEAF   WHITTIER, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


TO 

FREDERICK   A.   P.   BARNARD. 

HE  years  are  many  since,  in  youth  and  hope, 

Under  the  Charter  Oak,  our  horoscope 
We  drew  thick-studded  with  all  favoring  stars. 
Now,  with  gray  beards*  and  faces  seamed  with  scars 
From  life's  -hard  battle,  meeting  once  again, 
We  smile,  half  sadly,  over  dreams  so  vain  ; 
Knowing,  at  last    that  it  is  not  in   man 
Who  walketh  to  direct  his  steps,  or  plan 
His  permanent  house  of  life.     Alike  we  loved 
The  muses'  haunts,  and  all  our  fancies  moved 
To  measures  of  old  song.     How  since  that  day 
Our  feet  have  parted  from  the  path  that  lay 
So  fair  before  us  !     Rich,  from  lifelong  search 
Of  truth,  within  thy  Academic  porch 
Thou  sittest  now,  lord  of  a  realm  of  fact, 
Thy  servitors  the  sciences  exact ; 


DEDICATION. 

Still  listening  with  thy  hand  on  Nature's  keys, 

To  hear  the  Samian's  spheral  harmonies 

And  rhythm  of  law.     I  called  from  dream  and  song, 

Thank  God  !  so  early  to  a  strife  so  long, 

That,  ere  it  closed,  the- black,  abundant  hair 

Of  boyhood  rested  silver-sown  and  spare 

On  manhood's  temples,  now  at  sunset-chime 

Tread  with  fond  feet  the  path  of  morning  time. 

And  if  perchance  too  late  I  linger  where 

The  flowers  have  ceased  to  blow,  and  trees  are  bare, 

Thou,  wiser  in  thy  choice,  wilt  scarcely  blame 

The  friend  who  shields  his*  folly  with  thy  name. 

AMESBURY,  Tenth  Month,  1870. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
MIRIAM .        .11 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

NOREMBEGA 41 

NAUHAUGHT,  THE  DEACON 50 

IN  SCHOOL-DAYS 57 

GARIBALDI 61 

AFTER  ELECTION 64 

MY  TRIUMPH       .                                67 

THE  HIVE  AT  GETTYSBURG 73 

HOWARD  AT  ATLANTA 76 

To  LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD 80 

THE  PRAYER-SEEKER 83 

POEMS  FOR  PUBLIC  OCCASIONS. 

A  SPIRITUAL  MANIFESTATION        .               ...  89 

"THE  LAURELS" 100 

HYMN                       ........  103 


MIRIAM. 


MIRIAM. 

Sabbath  day  my  friend  and  I 
After  the  meeting,  quietly 
Passed  from  the  crowded  village  lanes, 
White  with  dry  dust  for  lack  of  rains, 
And  climbed  the  neighboring  slope,  with  feet 

+ 

Slackened  and  heavy  from  the  heat, 
Although  the  day  was  wellnigh  done, 
And  the  low  angle  of  the  sun 


12  MIRIAM. 

Along  the  naked  hillside  cast 

Our  shadows  as  of  giants  vast. 

We  reached,  at  length,  the  topmost  swell, 

Whence,  either  way,  the  green  turf  fell 

In  terraces  of  nature  down 

To  fruit-hung  orchards,  and  the  town 

With  white,  pretenceless  houses,  tall 

Church-steeples,  and,  o'ershadowing  all, 

Huge  mills  whose  windows  had  the  look 

Of  eager  eyes  that  ill  could  brook 

The  Sabbath  rest.     We  traced  the  track 

Of  the  sea-seeking  river  back 

Glistening  for  miles  above  its  mouth, 

Through  the  long  valley  to  the  south. 

And,  looking  eastward,  cool  to  view, 

Stretched  the  illimitable  blue 

Of  ocean,  from  its  curved  coast-line  ; 


MIRIAM.  13 

Sombred  and  still,  the  warm  sunshine 
Filled  with  pale  gold-dust  all  the  reach 
Of  slumberous  woods  from  hill  to  beach, — 
Slanted  on  walls  of  thronged  retreats 
From  city  toil  and  dusty  streets, 
On  grassy  bluff,  and  dune  of  sand, 
And  rocky  islands  miles  from  land  ; 
Touched  the  far-glancing  sails,  and  showed 
White  lines  of  foam  where  long  waves  flowed 
Dumb  in  the  distance.     In  the  north, 
Dim  through  their  misty  hair,  looked  forth 
The  space-dwarfed  mountains  to  the  sea, 
From  mystery  to  mystery ! 

So,  sitting  on  that  green  hill-slope, 
We  talked  of  human  life,  its  hope 
And  fear,  and  unsolved  doubts,  and  what 


14  MIRIAM. 

It  might  have  been,  and  yet  was  not. 
And,  when  at  last  the  evening  air 
Grew  sweeter  for  the  bells  of  prayer 
Ringing  in  steeples  far  below, 
We  watched  the  people  churchward  go, 
Each  to  his  place,  as  if  thereon 
The  true  shekinah  only  shone; 
And  my  friend  queried  how  it  came 
To  pass  that  they  who  owned  the  same 
Great  Master  still  could  not  agree 
To  worship  Him  in  company. 
Then,  broadening  in  his  thought,  he  ran 
Over  the  whole  vast  field  of  man,  — 
The  varying  forms  of  faith  and  creed 
That  somehow  served  the  holders'  need  ; 
In  which,  unquestioned,  undenied, 
Uncounted  millions  lived  and  died  ; 


MIRIAM. 

The  bibles  of  the  ancient  folk, 

Through  which  the  heart  of  nations  spoke  ; 

The  old  moralities  which  lent 

To  home  its  sweetness  and  content, 

And  rendered  possible  to  bear 

The  life  of  peoples  everywhere : 

And  asked  if  we,  who  boast  of  light, 

Claim  not  a  too  exclusive  right 

To  truths  which  must  for  all  be  meant, 

Like  rain  and  sunshine  freely  sent. 

In  bondage  to  the  letter  still, 

We  give  it  power  to  cramp  and  kill, — 

To  tax  God's  fulness  with  a  scheme 

Narrower  than  Peter's  house-top  dream, 

His  wisdom  and  his  love  with  plans 

Poor  and  inadequate  as  man's. 

It  must  be  that  He  witnesses 


1 6  MIRIAM. 

Somehow  to  all  men  that  He  is  : 

That  something  of  His  saving  grace 

Reaches  the  lowest  of  the  race, 

Who,  through  strange  creed  and  rite,  may  draw 

The  hints  of  a  diviner  law. 

We  walk  in  clearer  light;  —  but  then, 

Is  He  not  God  ?  —  are  they  not  men  ? 

Are  His  responsibilities 

For  us  alone  and  not  for  these  ? 

And  I  made  answer :  "  Truth  is  one  ; 
And,  in  all  lands  beneath  the  sun, 
Whoso  hath  eyes  to  see  may  see 
The  tokens  of  its  unity. 
No  scroll  of  creed  its  fulness  wraps, 
We  trace  it  not  by  school-boy  maps, 
Free  as  the  sun  and  air  it  is 


MIRIAM.  1 7 

Of  latitudes  and  boundaries. 

In  Vedic  verse,  in  dull  Koran, 

•*• 
Are  messages  of  good  to  man  ; 

The  angels  to  our  Aryan  sires 
Talked  by  the  earliest  household  fires  ; 
The  prophets  of  the  elder  day, 
The  slant-eyed  sages  of  Cathay, 
Read  not  the  riddle  all  amiss 
Of  higher  life  evolved  from  this. 

"Nor  doth  it  lessen  what  He  taught, 
Or  make  the  gospel  Jesus  brought 
Less  precious,  that  His  lips  retold 
Some  portion  of  that  truth  of  old  ; 
Denying  not  the  proven  seers, 
The  tested  wisdom  of  the  years ; 
Confirming  with  his  own  impress 


1 8  MIRIAM. 

The  common  law  of  righteousness. 

We  search  the  world  for  truth ;  we  cull 

The  good,  the  pure,  the  beautiful 

From  graven  stone  and  written  scroll, 

From  all  old  flower-fields  of  the  soul ; 

And,  weary  seekers  of  the  best, 

We  come  back  laden  from  our  quest, 

To  find  that  all  the  sages  said 

Is  in  the  Book  our  mothers  read, 

And  all  our  treasure  of  old  thought 

In  His  harmonious  fulness  wrought 

Who  gathers  in  one  sheaf  complete 

The  scattered  blades  of  God's  sown  wheat, 

The  common  growth  that  maketh  good 

His  all-embracing  Fatherhood. 

"Wherever  through  the  ages  rise 


MIRIAM.  19 

The  altars  of  self-sacrifice, 

Where  love  its  arms  has  opened  wide, 

Or  man  for  man  has  calmly  died, 

I  see  the  same  white  wings  outspread 

That  hovered  o'er  the  Master's  head  ! 

Up  from  undated  time  they  come, 

The  martyr  souls  of  heathendom, 

And  to  His  cross  and  passion  bring 

Their  fellowship  of  suffering. 

I  trace  His  presence  in  the  blind 

Pathetic  gropings  of  my  kind, — 

In  prayers  from  sin  and  sorrow  wrung, 

In  cradle-hymns  of  life  they  sung, 

Each,  in  its  measure,  but  a  part 

Of  the  unmeasured  Over-Heart ; 

And  with  a  stronger  faith  confess 

The  greater  that  it  owns  the  less. 


2O  MIRIAM. 

Good  cause  it  is  for  thankfulness 

That  the  world-blessing  of  His  life 

With  the  long  past  is  not  at  strife ; 

That  the  great  marvel  of  His  death 

To  the  one  order  witnesseth, 

No  doubt  of  changeless  goodness  wakes, 

No  link  of  cause  and  sequence  breaks, 

But,  one  with  nature,  rooted  is 

In  the  eternal  verities  ; 

Whereby,  while  differing  in  degree 

As  finite  from  infinity, 

The  pain  and  loss -for  others  borne, 

Love's  crown  of  suffering  meekly  worn, 

The  life  man  giveth  for  his  friend 

Become  vicarious  in  the  end ; 

Their  healing  place  in  nature  take, 

And  make  life  sweeter  for  their  sake. 


MIRIAM.  21 

"  So  welcome  I  from  every  source 
The  tokens  of  that  primal  Force, 
Older  than  heaven  itself,  yet  new 
As  the  young  heart  it  reaches  to, 
Beneath  whose  steady  impulse  rolls 
The  tidal  wave  of  human   souls ; 
Guide,  comforter,  and  inward  word, 
The  eternal  spirit  of  the  Lord  ! 
Nor  fear  I  aught  that  science  brings 
From  searching  through  material  things  ; 
Content  to  let  its  glasses  prove, 
Not  by  the  letter's  oldness  move, 
The  myriad  worlds  on  worlds  that  course 
The  spaces  of  the  universe  ; 
Since  everywhere  the  Spirit  walks 

The  garden  of  the  heart,  and  talks 

$ 

With  man,  as  under  Eden's  trees, 


22  MIRIAM. 

In  all  his  varied  languages. 
Why  mourn  above  some  hopeless  flaw 
In  the  stone  tables  of  the  law, 
When  scripture  every  day  afresh 
Is  traced  on  tablets  of  the  flesh  ? 
By  inward  sense,  by  outward  signs, 
God's  presence  still  the  heart  divines ; 
Through  deepest  joy  of  Him  we  learn, 
In  sorest  grief  to  Him  we  turn, 
And  reason  stoops  its  pride  to  share 
The  child-like  instinct  of  a  prayer." 

And  then,  as  is  my  wont,  I  told 
A  story  of  the  days  of  old, 
Not  found  in  printed  books,  —  in  sooth, 
A  fancy,  with  slight  hint  of  truth, 
Showing  how  differing  faiths  agree 


MIRIAM.  23 

In  one  sweet  law  of  charity. 

Meanwhile  the  sky  had  golden  grown, 

Our  faces  in  its  glory  shone ; 

But  shadows  down  the  valley  swept, 

And  gray  below  the  ocean  slept, 

As  time  and  space  I  wandered  o'er 

To  tread  the  Mogul's  marble  floor, 

And  see  a  fairer  sunset  fall 

On  Jumna's  wave  and  Agra's  wall. 


r  I  ^HE  good  Shah  Akbar  (peace  be  his  alway !) 
Came  forth  from  the  Divan  at  close  of  day 
Bowed  with  the  burden  of  his  many  cares, 
Worn  with  the  hearing  of  unnumbered  prayers,  — 
Wild  cries  for  justice,  the  importunate 
Appeals  of  greed  and  jealousy  and  hate, 


24  MIRIAM. 

And  all  the  strife  of.  sect  and  creed  and  rite, 
Santon  and  Gouroo  waging  holy  fight  : 
For  the  wise  monarch,  claiming  not  to  be 
Allah's  avenger,  left  his  people  free, 
With  a  faint  hope,  his  Book  scarce  justified, 
That  all  the  paths  of  faith,  though  severed  wide, 
O'er  which  the  feet  of  prayerful  reverence  passed, 
Met  at  the  gate  of  Paradise  at  last. 

He  sought  an  alcove  of  his  cool  hareem, 
Where,  far  beneath,  he  heard  the  Jumna's  stream 
Lapse  soft  and  low  along  his  palace  wall, 
And  all  about  the  cool  sound  of  the  fall 
Of  fountains,  and  of  water  circling  free 
Through  marble  ducts  along  the  balcony ; 
The  voice  of  women  in  the  distance  sweet, 
And,  sweeter  still,  of  one  who,  at  his  feet, 


MIRIAM.  25 

Soothed  his  tired  ear  with  songs  of  a  far  land 
Where  Tagus  shatters  on  the  salt  sea-sand 
The  mirror  of  its  cork-grown  hills  of  drouth 
And  vales  of  vine,  at  Lisbon's  harbor-mouth. 

The  date-palms  rustled  not ;  the  peepul  laid 
Its  topmost  boughs  against  the  balustrade, 
Motionless  as  the  mimic  leaves  and  vines 
That,  light  and  graceful  as  the  shawl-designs 
Of  Delhi  or  Umritsir,  twined  in  stone ; 
And  the  tired  monarch,  who  aside  had  thrown 
The  day's  hard  burden,  sat  from  care  apart, 
And  let  the  quiet  steal  into  his  heart 
From  the  still  hour.     Below  him  Agra  slept, 
By  the  long  light  of  sunset  overswept : 
The  river  flowing  through  a  level  land, 
By  mango-groves  and  banks  of  yellow  sand, 


26  MIRIAM. 

Skirted  with  lime  and  orange,  gay  kiosks, 
Fountains  at  play,  tall  minarets  of  mosques, 
Fair  pleasure-gardens,  with  their  flowering  trees 
Relieved  against  the  mournful  cypresses  ; 
And,  air-poised  lightly  as  the  blown  sea-foam, 
The  marble  wonder  of  some  holy  dome 
Hung  a  white  moonrise  over  the  still  wood, 
Glassing  its  beauty  in  a  stiller  flood. 

jj, 
Silent  the  monarch  gazed,  until  the  night 

Swift-falling  hid  the  city  from  his  sight, 
Then  to  the  woman  at  his  feet  he  said  : 
"Tell  me,  O  Miriam,  something  thou  hast  read 
In  childhood  of  the  Master  of  thy  faith, 
Whom  Islam  also  owns.     Our  Prophet  saith : 
'  He  was  a  true  apostle,  yea,  —  a  Word 
And  Spirit  sent  before  me  from  the  Lord/ 


MIRIAM.  27 

Thus  the  Book  witnesseth  ;  and  well  I  know 
By  what  thou  art,  O  dearest,  it  is  so. 
As  the  lute's  tone  the  maker's  hand  betrays, 
The  sweet  disciple  speaks  her  Master's  praise." 

Then  Miriam,  glad  of  heart  (for  in  some  sort 
She  cherished  in  the  Moslem's  liberal  court 
The  sweet  traditions  of  a  Christian  child ; 
And,  through  her  life  of  sense,  the  undefiled 
And  chaste  ideal  of  the  sinless  One 
Gazed  on  her  with  an  eye  she  might  not  shun, — 
The  sad,  reproachful  look  of  pity,  born 
Of  love  that  hath  no  part  in  wrath  or  scorn,) 
Began,  with  low  voice  and  moist  eyes,  to  tell 
Of  the  all-loving  Christ,  and  what  befell 
When  the  fierce  zealots,  thirsting  for  her  blood, 
Dragged  to  his  feet  a  shame  of  womanhood. 


28  MIRIAM. 

How,  when  his  searching  answer  pierced  within 

Each  heart,  and  touched  the  secret  of  its  sin, 

And  her  accusers  fled  his  face  before, 

He  bade  the  poor  one  go  and  sin  no  more. 

And  Akbar  said,  after  a  moment's  thought, 

"  Wise  is  the  lesson  by'  thy  prophet  taught ; 

Woe  ,unto  him  who  judges  and  forgets 

What  hidden  evil  his  own  heart  besets ! 

Something  of  this  large  charity  I  find 

In  all*  the  sects  that  sever  human  kind ; 

I  would  to  Allah  that  their  lives  agreed 

More  nearly  with  the  lesson  of  their  creed ! 

Those  yellow  Lamas  who  at  Meerut  pray 

By  wind  and  water  power,  and  love  to  say : 

'-He  who  forgiveth  not  shall,  unforgiven, 

Fail  of  the  rest  of  Buddha/  and  who  even 

Spare  the  black  gnat  that  stings  them,  vex  my  ears 


MIRIAM.  29 

With  the  poor  hates  and  jealousies  and  fears 
Nursed   in    their   human   hives.      That   lean,   fierce 

priest 

Of  thy  own  people,  (be  his  heart  increased 
By  Allah's  love!)  his  black  robes -smelling  yet 
Of  Goa's  roasted  Jews,  have  I  not  met 
Meek-faced,  barefooted,  crying  in  the  street 
The  saying  of  his  prophet  true  and  sweet,  — 
*  He  who  is  merciful  shall  mercy  meet ! ' ' 

But,  next  day,  so  it  chanced,  as  night  began 
To  fall,  a  murmur  through  the  hareem  ran 
That  one,  recalling  in  her  dusky  face 
The  full-lipped,  mild-eyed  beauty  of  a  race 
Known  as  the  blameless  Ethiops  of  Greek  song, 
Plotting  to  do  her  royal  master  wrong, 
Watching,  reproachful  of  the  lingering  light, 


3O  MIRIAM. 

The  evening  shadows  deepen  for  her  flight, 

Love-guided,  to  her  home  in  a  far  land, 

Now  waited  death  at  the  great  Shah's  commando 

Shapely  as  that  dark  princess  for  whose  smile 
A  world  was  bartered,  daughter  of  the  Nile 
Herself,  and  veiling  in  her  large,  soft  eyes 
The  passion  and  the  languor  of  her  skies, 
The  Abyssinian  knelt  low  at  the  feet 
Of  her  stern  lord  :  "  O  king,  if  it  be  meet, 
And  for  thy  honor's  sake,"  she  said,  "  that  I, 
Who  am  the  humblest  of  thy  slaves,  should  die, 
I  will  not  tax  thy  mercy  to  forgive. 
Easier  it  is  to  die  than  to  outlive 
All  that  life  gave  me,  —  him  whose  wrong  of  thee 
Was  but  the  outcome  of  his  love  for  me, 
Cherished  from  childhood,  when,  beneath  the  shade 


MIRIAM.  31 

Of  templed  Axum,  side  by  side  we  played. 

Stolen  from  his  arms,  my  lover  followed  me 

Through  weary  seasons  over  land  and  sea ; 

And  two  days  since,  sitting  disconsolate 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  hareem  gate, 

Suddenly,  as  if  dropping  from  the  sky, 

Down  from  the  lattice  of  the  balcony 

Fell  the  sweet  song  by  Tigre's  cowherds  sung 

In  the  old  music  of  his  native  tongue. 

He  knew  my  voice,  for  love  is  quick  of  ear, 

Answering  in  song. 

This  night  he  waited  near 

To  fly  with  me.     The  fault  was  mine  alone  :  « 

He  knew  thee  not,  he  did  but  seek  his  own  ; 
Who,  in  the  very  shadow  of  thy  throne, 
Sharing  thy  bounty,  knowing  all  thou  art, 
Greatest  and  best  of  men,  and  in  her  heart 


32  MIRIAM. 

Grateful  to  tears  for  favor  undeserved, 
Turned  ever  homeward,  nor  one  moment  swerved 
From  her  young  love.     He  looked  into  my  eyes, 
He  heard  my  voice,  and  could  not  otherwise 
Than  he  hath  done ;  yet,  save  one  wild  embrace 
When  first  we  stood  together  face  to  face, 
And  all  that  fate  had  done  since  last  we  met 
Seemed  but  a  dream  that  left  us  children  yet, 
He  hath  not  wronged  thee  nor  thy  royal  bed  ; 
Spare  him,  O  king  !  and  slay  me  in  his  stead  ! " 

But  over  Akbar's  brows  the  frown  hung  black, 
And,  turning  to  the  eunuch  at  his  back> 
"Take  them,"  he  said,  "and  let  the  Jumna's  waves 
Hide  both  my  shame  and  these  accursed  slaves !  " 
His  loathly  length  the  unsexed  bondman  bowed : 
"On  my  head  be  it!" 


MIRIAM.  33 

Straightway  from  a  cloud 
Of  dainty  shawls  and  veils  of  woven  mist 
The  Christian  Miriam  rose,  and,  stooping,  kissed 
The  monarch's    hand.      Loose    down   her   shoulders 

bare 

Swept  all  the  rippled  darkness  of  her  hair, 
Veiling  the  bosom  that,  with  high,  quick  swell 
Of  fear  and  pity,  through  it  rose  and  fell. 

"  Alas  !  "  she  cried,  "  hast  thou  forgotten  quite 
The  words  of  Him  we  spake  of  yesternight  ? 
Or  thy  own  prophet's,  — '  Whoso  doth  endure 
And  pardon,  of  eternal  life  is  sure '  ? 
O  great  and  good  !  be  thy  revenge  alone 
Felt  in  thy  mercy  to  the  erring  shown  ; 
Let  thwarted  love  and  youth  their  pardon  plead, 
Who  sinned  but  in  intent,  and  not  in  deed  !  " 

2*  C 


34  MIRIAM. 

One  moment  the  strong  frame  of  Akbar  shook 
With  the  great  storm  of  passion.     Then  his  look 
Softened  to  her  uplifted  face,  that  still 
Pleaded  more  strongly  than  all  words,  until 
Its  pride  and  anger  seemed  like  overblown, 
Spent  clouds  of  thunder  left  to  tell  alone 
Of  strife  and  overcoming.     With  bowed  head, 
And  smiting  on  his  bosom :  "  God,"  he  said, 
"  Alone  is  great,  and  let  His  holy  name 
Be  honored,  even  to  His  servant's  shame ! 
Well  spake  thy  prophet,  Miriam,  —  he  alone 
Who  hath  not  sinned  is  meet  to  cast  a  stone 
At  such  as  these,  who  here  their  doom  await, 
Held  like  myself  in  the  strong  grasp  of  fate. 
They  sinned   through  love,  as   I  through    love  for- 
give ; 
Take  them  beyond  my  realm,  but  let  them  live  ! " 


MIRIAM.  35 

And,  like  a  chorus  to  the  words  of  grace, 
The  ancient  Fakir,  sitting  in  his  place, 
Motionless  as  an  idol  and  as  grim, 
In  the  pavilion  Akbar  built  for  him 
Under  the  courtyard  "trees,  (for  he  was  wise, 
Knew  Menu's  laws,  and  through  his  close-shut  eyes 
Saw  things  far  off,  and  as  an  open  book 
Into  the  thoughts  of  other  men  could  look,) 
Began,  half  chant,  half  howling,  to  rehearse 
The  fragment  of  a  holy  Vedic  verse ; 
And  thus  it  ran  :  "  He  who  all  things  forgives 
Conquers  himself  and  all  things  else,  and  lives 
Above  the  reach  of  wrong  or  hate  or  fear, 
Calm  as  the  gods,  to  whom  he  is  most  dear." 

Two  leagues  from  Agra  still  the  traveller  sees 
The  tomb  of  Akbar  through  its  cypress-trees  ; 


36  MIRIAM. 

And,  near  at  hand,  the  marble  walls  that  hide 
The  Christian  Begum  sleeping  at  his  side. 
And  o'er  her  vault  of  burial  (who  shall  tell 
If  it  be  chance  alone  or  miracle  ?) 
The  Mission  press  with  tireless  hand  unrolls 
The  words  of  Jesus  on  its  lettered  scrolls,  - 
Tells,  in  all  tongues,  the  tale  of  mercy  o'er, 
And  bids  the  guilty,  "  Go  and  sin  no  more !  " 


It  now  was  dew-fall  ;  very  still 
The  night  lay  on  the  lonely  hill, 
Down  which  our  homeward  steps  we  .bent, 
And,  silent,  through*  great  silence  went, 
Save  that  the  tireless  crickets  played 
Their  long,  monotonous  serenade. 
A  young  moon,  at  its  narrowest, 


MIRIAM.  37 

Curved  sharp  against  the  darkening  west ; 

And,  momently,  the  beacon's  star, 

Slow  wheeling  o'er  its  rock  afar, 

From  out  the  level  darkness  shot 

One  instant  and  again  was  not. 

And  then  my  friend  spake  quietly 

The  thought  of  both  :  "  Yon  crescent  see ! 

Like  Islam's  symbol-moon  it  gives 

Hints  of  the  light  whereby  it  lives : 

Somewhat  of  goodness,  something  true 

From  sun  and  spirit  shining  through 

All  faiths,  all  worlds,  as  through  the  dark 

Of  ocean  shines  the  lighthouse  spark, 

Attests  the  presence  everywhere 

Of  love  and  providential  care. 

The  faith  the  old  Norse  heart  confessed 

In  one  dear  name,  —  the  hopefulest 


38  MIRIAM. 

And  tenderest  heard  from  mortal  lips 
In  pangs  of  -birth  or  death,  from  ships 
Ice-bitten  in  the  winter  sea, 
Or  lisped  beside  a  mother's  knee,  — 
The  wiser  world  hath  not  outgrown, 
And  the  All-Father  is  our  own ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


NOREMBEGA. 


[Norembega,  or  Norimbegue,  is  the  name  given  by  early 
French  fishermen  and  explorers  to  a  fabulous  country  south 
of  Cape  Breton,  first  discovered  by  Verrazzani  in  1524.  It 
was  supposed  to  have  a  magnificent  city  of  the  same  name  on 
a  great  river,  probably  the  Penobscot.  The  site  of  this  bar- 
baric city  is  laid  down  on  a  map  published  at  Antwerp  in  1570. 
In  1604  Champlain  sailed  in  search  of  the  Northern  Eldorado, 
twenty-two  leagues  up  the  Penobscot  from  the  Isle  Haute. 
He  supposed  the  river  to  be  that  of  Norembega,  but  wisely 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  those  travellers  who  told  of  the 
great  city  had  never  seen  it.  He  saw  no  evidences  of  anything 
like  civilization,  but  mentions  the  finding  of  a  cross,  very  old 
and  mossy,  in  the  woods.] 


r  I  ""'HE  winding  way  the  serpent  takes 

The  mystic  water  took, 
From  where,  to  count  its  beaded  lakes, 
The  forest  sped  its  brook. 


42  NOREMBEGA. 

A  narrow  space  'twixt  shore  and  shore, 

For  sun  or  stars  to  fall, 
While  evermore,  behind,  before, 

Closed  in  the  forest  wall. 

The  dim  wood  hiding  underneath 
Wan  flowers  without  a  name  ; 

Life  tangled  with  decay  and  death, 
League  after  league  the  same. 

Unbroken  over  swamp  and  hill 

The  rounding  shadow  lay, 
Save  where  the  river  cut  at  will 

A  pathway  to  the  day. 

Beside  that  track  of  air  and  light, 
Weak  as  a  child  unweaned, 


NOREMBEGA.  43 

At  shut  of  day  a  Christian  knight 
Upon  his  henchman  leaned. 

The  embers  of  the  sunset's  fires 

Along  the  clouds  burned  down  ; 
"I  see,"  he  said,  "the  domes  and  spires 

Of  Norembega  town." 

"Alack!   the  domes,  O  master  mine, 

Are  golden  clouds  on  high  ; 
Yon  spire  is  but  the  branchless  pine 

That  cuts  the  evening  sky." 

"O  hush  and  hark!     What  sounds  are  these 

But  chants  and  holy  hymns  ? " 
"  Thou  hear'st  the  breeze  that  stirs  the  trees 

Through  all  t-heir  leafy  limbs." 


,44  NOREMBEGA. 

"Is  it  a  chapel  bell  that  fills 

The  air  with  its  low  tone  ? " 
"Thou  hear'st  the  tinkle  of  the  rills, 

The  insect's  vesper  drone." 

"  The  Christ  be  praised !  —  He  sets  for  me 

A  blessed  cross  in  sight ! " 
"  Now,  nay,  't  is  but  yon  blasted  tree 

With  two  gaunt  arms  outright ! " 

"  Be  it  wind  so  sad  or  tree  so  stark, 

It  mattereth  not,  my  knave ; 
Methinks  to  funeral  hymns  I  hark, 

The  cross  is  for  my  grave  ! 

"  My  life  is  sped  ;  I  shall  not  see 
My  home-set  sails  again  ; 


NOREMBEGA.  45 

The  sweetest  eyes  of  Normandie 
Shall  watch  for  me  in  vain. 

"  Yet  onward  still  to  ear  and  eye 

The  baffling  marvel  calls  ; 
I  fain  would  look  before  I  die 

On  Norembega's  walls. 

"  So,  haply,  it  shall  be  thy  part 

At  Christian  feet  to  lay 
The  mystery  of  the  desert's  heart 

My  dead  nand  plucked  away. 

"  Leave  me  an  hour  of  rest ;    go  thou 

And  look  from  yonder  heights  ; 
Perchance  the  valley  even  now 

Is  starred  with  city  lights." 


46  NOREMBEGA. 

The  henchman  climbed  the  nearest  hill, 

He  saw  nor  tower  nor  town, 
But,  through  the  drear  woods,  lone  and  still 

The  river  rolling  down. 

He  heard  the  stealthy  feet  of  things 
Whose  shapes  he  could  not  see, 

A  flutter  as  of  evil  wings, 
The  fall  of  a  dead  tree. 

The  pines  stood  black  against  the  moon, 

A  sword  of  fire  beyond  ; 
He  heard  the  wolf  howl,  and  the  loon 

Laugh  from  his  reedy  pond. 

% 

He  turned  him  back  :   "  O  master  dear, 
We  are  but  men  misled  ; 


NOREMBEGA. 

And  thou  hast  sought  a  city  here 
To  find  a  grave  instead." 

"As  God  shall  will !   what  matters  where 
A  true  man's  cross  may  stand, 

So  Heaven  be  o'er  it  here  as  there 
In  pleasant  Norman  land  ? 

"  These  woods,  perchance,  no  secret  hide 

Of  lordly  tower  and  hall ; 
Yon  river  in  its  wanderings  wide 

Has  washed  no  city  wall ; 

"  Yet  mirrored  in  the  sullen  stream 

The  holy  stars  are  given : 
Is  Norembega,  then,  a  dream 

Whose  waking  is  in  Heaven  ? 


NOREMBEGA. 

"No  builded  wonder  of  these  lands 
My  weary  eyes  shall  see  ; 

A  city  never  made  with  hands 
Alone  awaiteth  me  — 

" '  Urbs  Syon  mystica '/  I  see 
Its  mansions  passing  fair, 

'  Condita  cczlo ';   let  me  be, 
Dear  Lord,  a  dweller  there ! " 

-j 
Above  the  dying  exile  hung 

The  vision  of  the  bard, 
As  faltered  on  his  failing  tongue 
The  song  of  good  Bernard. 

The  henchman  dug  at  dawn  a  grave 
Beneath  the  hemlocks  brown, 


NOREMBEGA.  49 

And  to  the  desert's  keeping  gave 
The  lord  of  fief  and  town. 

Years  after,  when  the  Sieur  Champlain 

Sailed  up  the  unknown  stream, 
And  Norernbega  proved  again 

A  shadow  and  a  dream, 

«;• 

He  found  the  Norman's  nameless  grave 

Within  the  hemlock's  shade, 
And,  stretching  wide  its  arms  to  save, 

The  sign  that  God  had  made, — 

The  cross-boughed  tree  that  marked  the  spot 

And  made  it  holy  ground : 
He  needs  the  earthly  city  not 

Who  hath  the  heavenly  found. 
4 


NAUHAUGHT,    THE    DEACON. 

XT  AUH  AUGHT,  the  Indian  deacon,  who  of  old 
Dwelt,   poor    but    blameless,    where    his   nar- 
rowing QaPe 

Stretches  its  shrunk  arm  out  to  all  the  winds 
And  the  relentless  smiting  of  the  waves, 
Awoke  one  morning  from  a  pleasant  dream 
Of  a  good  angel  dropping  in  his  hand 
A  fair,  broad  gold-piece,  in  the  name  of  God. 

He  rose  and  went  forth  with  the  early  day 
Far  inland,  where  the  voices  of  the  waves 
Mellowed  and  mingled  with  the  whispering  leaves, 
As,  through  the  tangle  of  the  low,  thick  woods, 


NAUHAUGHT,    THE    DEACON.  51 

He  searched  his  traps.     Therein  nor  beast  nor  bird 
He  found ;   though  meanwhile  in  the  reedy  pools 
The  otter  plashed,  and  underneath  the  pines 
The  partridge  drummed  :  and  as  his  thoughts  went 

back 

To  the  sick  wife  and  little  child  at  home, 
What  marvel  that  the  poor  man  felt  his  faith 
Too  weak  to  bear  its  burden,  —  like  a  rope 
That,  strand  by  strand  uncoiling,  breaks  above 
The  hand  that  grasps  it.     "  Even  now,  O  Lord ! 
Send  me,"  he  prayed,  "the  angel  of  my  dream! 
Nauhaught  is  very  poor  ;   he  cannot  wait." 

Even  as  he  spake  he  heard  at  his  bare  feet 
A  low,  metallic  clink,  and,  looking  down, 
He  saw  a  dainty  purse  with  disks  of  gold 

Crowding  its  silken  net.     Awhile  he  held 

* 


52  NAUHAUGHT,    THE    DEACON. 

The  treasure  up  before  his  eyes,  alone 
With  his  great  need,  feeling  the  wondrous  coins 
Slide  through  his  eager  fingers,  one  by  one. 
So  then  the  dream  was  true.     The  angel  brought 
One  broad  piece  only  ;   should  he  take  all  these  ? 
Who  would  be  wiser,  in  the  blind,  dumb  woods  ? 
The  loser,  doubtless  rich,  would  scarcely  miss 
This  dropped  crumb  from  a  table  always  full. 
Still,  while  he  mused,  he  seemed  to  hear  the  cry 
Of  a  starved  child  ;    the  sick  face  of  his  wife 
Tempted  him.     Heart  and  flesh  in  fierce  revolt 
Urged  the  wild  license  of  his  savage  youth 
Against  his  later  scruples.     Bitter  toil, 
Prayer,  fasting,  dread  of  blame,  and  pitiless  eyes 
To  watch  his  halting,  —  had  he  lost  for  these 
The  freedom  of  the  woods  ;  —  the  hunting-grounds 
Of  happy  spirits  for  a  walled-in  heaven 


NAUHAUGHT,    THE    DEACON.  53 

Of  everlasting  psalms  ?     One  healed  the  sick 
Very  far  off  thousands  of  moons  ago  : 
Had  he  not  prayed  him  night  and  day  to  come 
And  cure  his  bed-bound  wife  ?     Was  .there  a  hell  ? 
Were  all  his  fathers'  people  writhing  there  — 
Like  the  poor  shell-fish  set  to  boil  alive  — 
Forever,  dying  never  ?     If  he  kept 
This  gold,  so  needed,  would  the  dreadful  God 
Torment  him  like  a  Mohawk's  captive  stuck 
With  slow-consuming  splinters  ?     Would  the  saints 
And  the  white  angels  dance  and  laugh  to  see  him 
Burn  like  a  pitch-pine  torch  ?     His  Christian  garb 
Seemed  falling  from  him  ;  with  the  fear  and  shame 
Of  Adam  naked  at  the  cool  of  day, 
He  gazed  around.     A  black  snake  lay  in  coil 
On  the  hot  sand,  a  crow  with  sidelong  eye 
Watched  from  a  dead  bough.     All  his  Indian  lore 


54  NAUHAUGHT,    THE    DEACON. 

Of  evil  blending  with  a  convert's  faith 
In  the  supernal  terrors  of  the  Book, 

He  saw  the  Tempter  in  the  coiling  snake 

«* 

And  ominous,  black-winged  bird  ;  and  all  the  while 

The  low  rebuking  of  the  distant  waves 

Stole  in  upon  him  like  the  voice  of  God 

Among  the  trees  of  Eden.     Girding  up 

His  soul's  loins  with  a  resolute  hand,  he  thrust 

The   base   thought   from   him  :   "  Nauhaught,   be   a 

man  ! 

Starve,  if  need  be  ;   but,  while  you  live,  look  out 
From  honest  eyes  on  all  men,  unashamed. 
God  help  me  !     I  am  deacon  of  the  church, 
A  baptized,  praying  Indian  !     Should  I  do 
This  secret  meanness,  even  the  barken  knots 
Of  the  old  trees  would  turn  to  eyes  to  see  it, 
The  birds  would  tell  of  it,  and  all  the  leaves 


•  NAUHAUGHT,    THE    DEACON.  55 

Whisper  above  me  :   '  Nauh aught  is  a  thief !  ' 
The  sun  would  know  it,  and  the  stars  that  hide 
Behind  his  light  would  watch  me,  and  at  night 
Follow  me  with  their  sharp,  accusing  eyes. 

Yea,  thou,  God,  seest  me  !  "     Then  Nauhaught  drew 

i 
Closer  his  belt  of  leather,  dulling  thus 

The  pain  of  hunger,  and  walked  bravely  back 
To  the  brown  fishing-hamlet  by  the  sea ; 
And r* pausing  at  the  inn-door,  cheerily  asked : 
"  Who  hath  lost  aught  to-day  ? " 

"  I,"  said  a  voice  ; 

'  Ten  golden  pieces,  in  a  silken  purse, 
My  daughter's  handiwork."     He  looked,  and  lo ! 
One  stood  before  him  in  a  coat  of  frieze, 
And  the  glazed  hat  of  a  seafaring  man, 
Shrewd-faced,   broad-shouldered,    with   no    trace   of 
wings. 


56  NAUHAUGHT,    THE    DEACON. 

Marvelling,  he  dropped  within  the  stranger's  hand 
The  silken  web,  and  turned  to  go  his  way. 
But  the  man  said  :   "  A  tithe  at  least  is  yours ; 
Take  it  in  God's  name  as  an  honest  man." 
And  as  the  deacon's  dusky  fingers  closed 

-; 

Over  the  golden  gift,  "  Yea,  in  God's  name 
I  take  it,  with  a  poor  man's  thanks,"  he  said. 

So  down  the  street  that,  like  a  river  of  sandL 
Ran,  white  in  sunshine,  to  the  summer  sea, 
He  sought  his  home,  singing  and  praising  God  ; 
And  when  his  neighbors  in  their  careless  way 
Spoke  of  the  owner  of  the  silken  purse  — 
A  Wellfleet  skipper,  known  in  every  port 
That  the  Cape  opens  in  its  sandy  wall  — 
He  answered,  with  a  wise  smile,  to  himself: 
"  I  saw  the  angel  where  they  see  a  man." 


IN    SCHOOL-DAYS. 

OTILL  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 

A  ragged  beggar  sunning ; 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow, 
And  blackberry  vines  are  running. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 

Deep  scarred  by  raps  official ; 
The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats, 

The  jack-knife's  carved  initial ; 

The  charcoal  frescos  on  its  wall ; 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing ! 


58  IN    SCHOOL-DAYS. 

Long  years  ago  a  winter  sun 

Shone  over  it  at  setting ; 
Lit  up  its  western  window-panes, 

And  low  eaves'  icy  fretting. 

It  touched  the  tangled  golden  curls, 
And  brown  eyes  full  of  grieving, 

Of  one  who  still  her  steps  delayed 
When  all  the  school  were  leaving. 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 

Her  childish  favor  singled ; 
His  cap  pulled  low  upon  a  face 

Where  pride  and  shame  were  mingled. 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 
To  right  and  left,  he  lingered  ;  — 


IN    SCHOOL-DAYS. 

As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 

The  blue-checked  apron  fingered. 

He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes  ;  he  felt 
The  soft  hand's  light  caressing, 

And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice, 
As  if  a  fault  confessing. 

"  I  'm  sorry  that  I  spelt  the  word  : 

I  hate  to  go  above  you, 
Because,"  —  the  brown  eyes  lower  fell, 

"  Because,  you  see,  I  love  you  !  " 

Still  memory  to  a  gray-haired  man 
That  sweet  child-face  is  showing. 

Dear  girl !  the  grasses  on  her  grave 
Have  forty  years  been  growing ! 


6O  IN    SCHOOL-DAYS. 

/  He  lives  to  learn,  in  life's  hard  school, 
How  few  who  pass  above  him 

)  Lament  their  triumph  and  his  loss, 
Like  her,  —  because  they  love  him. 


GARIBALDI. 

TN  trance  and  dream  of  old,  God's  prophet  saw 
The  casting  down  of  thrones.     Thou,  watching 

lone 

The  hot  Sardinian  coast-line,  hazy-hilled, 
Where,  fringing  round  Caprera's  rocky  zone 
With  foam,  the  slow  waves  gather  and  withdraw, 
Behold'st  the  vision  of  the  seer  fulfilled, 
And  hear'st  the  sea-winds  burdened  with  a  sound 
Of  falling  chains,  as,  one  by  .one,  unbound, 
The  nations  lift  their  right  hands  up  and  swear 
Their   oath    of   freedom.       From   the  chalk-white 

wall 
Of  England,  from  the  black   Carpathian  range, 


62  GARIBALDI. 

Along  the  Danube  and  the  Theiss,  through  all 

The  passes  of  the  Spanish  Pyrenees, 
And    from  the    Seine's    thronged    banks,  a  murmur 
strange 

And  glad  floats  to  thee  o'er  thy  summer  seas 
On  the  salt  wind  that  stirs  thy  whitening  hair, — 

The  song  of  freedom's  bloodless  victories  ! 

Rejoice,  O  Garibaldi !     Though  thy  sword 

Failed  at    Rome's  gates,  and   blood   seemed   vainly 

poured 

Where,  in  Christ's  name,  the  crowned  infidel 
Of  France  wrought  murder  with  the  arms  of  hell 

On  that  sad  mountain  slope  whose  ghostly  dead, 
Unmindful  of  the  gray  exorcist's  ban, 
Walk,  unappeased,  the  chambered  Vatican, 

And  draw  the  curtains  of  Napoleon's  bed ! 


GARIBALDI.  63 

God's  providence  is  not  blind,  but,  full  of  eyes, 

It  searches  all  the  refuges  of  lies  ; 

And  in  His  time  and  way,  the  accursed  things 
Before  whose  evil  feet  thy  battle-gage 
Has  clashed  defiance  from  hot  youth  to  age 

Shall  perish.    All  men  shall  be  priests  and  kings, — 
One  royal  brotherhood,  one  church  made  free 
By  love,  which  is  the  law  of  liberty  ! 

1869. 


AFTER     ELECTION. 


/T~^HE  day's  sharp  .strife  is  ended  now, 

Our  work  is  done,  God  knoweth  how  ! 
As  on  the  thronged,  unrestful  town 
The  patience  of  the  moon  looks  down, 
I  wait  to  hear,  beside  the  wire, 
The  voices  of  its  tongues  of  fire. 

Slow,  doubtful,  faint,  they  seem  at  first  : 
Be  strong,  my  heart,  to  know  the  worst  ! 
Hark  !  —  there  the  Alleghanies  spoke  ; 
That  sound  from  lake  and  prairie  broke 
That  sunset-gun  of  triumph  rent 
The  silence  of  a  continent  ! 


AFTER  ELECTION.  65 

That  signal  from  Nebraska  sprung, 

This,  from  Nevada's  mountain  tongue ! 

Is  that  thy  answer,  strong  and  free, 

O  loyal  heart  of  Tennessee  ? 

What  strange,  glad  voice  is  that  which  calls 

From  Wagner's  grave  and  Sumter's  walls? 

From  Mississippi's  fountain-head 
A  sound  as  of  the  bison's  tread  ! 
There  rustled  freedom's  Charter  Oak! 
In  that  wild  burst  the  Ozarks  spoke  ! 
Cheer  answers  cheer  from  rise  to  set 
Of  sun.     We  have  a  country  yet ! 

The  praise,  O  God,  be  thine  alone! 
Thou  givest  not  for  bread  a  stone  ; 
Thou  hast  not  led  us  through  the  night 

5 


66  AFTER   ELECTION. 

To  blind  us  with  returning  light; 

Not  through  the  furnace  have  we  passed, 

To  perish  at  its  mouth  at  last. 

O  night  of  peace,  thy  flight  restrain  ! 
November's  moon,  be  slow  to  wane ! 
Shine  on  the  freedman's  cabin  floor, 
On  brows  of  prayer  a  bkssing  pour ; 
And  give,  with  full  assurance  blest, 
The  weary  heart  of  Freedom  rest ! 
1868. 


'MY   TRIUMPH. 


autumn-time  has  come  ; 
On  woods  that  dream  of  bloom, 
And  over  purpling  vines, 
The  low  sun  fainter  shines. 

The  aster-flower  is  failing, 
The  hazel's  gold  is  paling ; 
Yet  overhead  more  near 
The  eternal  stars  appear  ! 

And  present  gratitude 
Insures  the  future's  good, 
And  for  the  things  I  see 
I  trust  the  things  to  be ; 


68  MY    TRIUMPH. 

That  in  the  paths  untrod. 
And  the  long  days  of  God, 
My  feet  shall  still  be  led, 
My  heart  be  comforted. 

O  living  friends  who  love  me ! 

0  dear  ones  gone  above  me  ! 
Careless  of  other  fame, 

1  leave  to  you  my  name. 

Hide  it  from  idle  praises, 

Save  it  from  evil  phrases : 

Why,  when  dear  lips  that  spake  it 

Are  dumb,  should  strangers  wake  it  ? 

Let  the  thick  curtain  fall ; 
I  better  know  than  all 


MY    TRIUMPH.  69 

How  little  I  have  gained, 
How  vast  the  unattained. 


Not  by  the  page  word-painted 
Let  life  be  banned  or  sainted  : 
Deeper  than  written  scroll 
The  colors  of  the  soul. 

(  Sweeter  than  any  sung 

My  songs  that  found  no  tongue  ; 
i 
j  Nobler  than  any  fact 

My  wish  that  failed  of  act. 

Others  shall  sing  the  song, 
Others  shall  right  the  wrong,  — 
Finish  what  I  begin, 
And  all  I  fail  of  win. 


7O  MY   TRIUMPH. 

What  matter,  I  or  they  ? 
Mine  or  another's  day, 
So  the  right  word  be  said 
And  life  the  sweeter  made  ? 

Hail  to  the  coming  singers  ! 
Hail  to  the  brave  light-bringers ! 
Forward  I  reach  and  share 
All  that  they  sing  and  dare. 

The  airs  of  heaven  blow  o'er  me ; 
A  glory  shines  before  me 
Of  what  mankind  shall  be,  — 
Pure,  generous,  brave,  and  free. 

A  dream  of  man  and  woman 
Diviner  but  still  human, 


MY   TRIUMPH. 


Solving  the  riddle  old, 
Shaping  the  Age  of  Gold! 

The  love  of  God  and  neighbor  ; 
An  equal-handed  labor  ; 
The  richer  life,  where  beauty 
Walks  hand  in  hand  with  duty. 

Ring,  bells  in  unreared  steeples, 
The  joy  of  unborn  peoples  ! 
Sound,  trumpets  far  off  blown, 
Your  triumph  is  my  own  ! 

Parcel  and  part  of  all, 
I  keep  the  festival, 
Fore  -reach  the  good  to  be, 
And  share  the  victory. 


72  MY    TRIUMPH. 

I  feel  the  earth  move  sunward, 
I  join  the  great  march  onward, 
And  take,  by  faith,  while  living, 
My  freehold  of  thanksgiving. 


THE    HIVE    AT    GETTYSBURG. 

T  N  the  old  Hebrew  myth  the  lion's  frame, 

So  terrible  alivev 
Bleached  by  the  desert's  sun  and  wind,  became 

The  wandering  wild  bees'  hive ; 
And  he  who,  lone  and  naked-handed,  tore 

Those  jaws  of  death  apart, 
In  after  time  drew  forth  their  honeyed  store 

To  strengthen  his  strong  heart. 

Dead  seemed  the  legend :   but  it  only  slept 

To  wake  beneath  our  sky ; 
Just  on  the  spot  whence  ravening  Treason  crept 

Back  to  its  lair  to  die, 


74  THE    HIVE   AT    GETTYSBURG. 

Bleeding  and  torn  from  Freedom's  mountain  bounds, 

A  stained  and  shattered  drum 
Is  now  the  hive  where,  on  their  flowery  rounds, 

The  wild  bees  go  and  come. 

Unchallenged  by  a  ghostly  sentinel, 

They  wander  wide  and  far, 
Along  green  hillsides,  sown  with  shot  and  shell, 

Through  vales  once  choked  with  war. 
The  low  reveille  of  their  battle-drum 

Disturbs  no  morning  prayer ; 
With  deeper  peace  in  summer  noons  their  hum 

Fills  all  the  drowsy  air. 

And  Samson's  riddle  is  our  own  to-day, 

Of  sweetness  from  the  strong, 
Of  union,  peace,  and  freedom  plucked  away 

From  the  rent  jaws  of  wrong. 


THE    HIVE    AT    GETTYSBURG.  75 

From  Treason's  death  we  draw  a  purer  life, 

As,  from  the  beast  he  slew, 
A  sweetness  sweeter  for  his  bitter  strife 

The  old-time  athlete  drew ! 


HOWARD    AT    ATLANTA. 

"O  IGHT  in  the  track  where  Sherman 

Ploughed  his  red  furrow, 
Out  of  the  narrow  cabin, 

Up  from  the  cellar's   burrow, 
Gathered  the  little  black  people, 

With  freedom  newly  dowered, 
Where,  beside  their  Northern  teacher, 

Stood  the  soldier,  Howard. 

He  listened  and  heard  the  children 
Of  the  poor  and  long-enslaved 

Reading  the  words  of  Jesus, 
Singing  the  songs  of  David. 


HOWARD    AT    ATLANTA. 

Behold!  —  the  dumb,  lips  speaking, 

The  blind  eyes  seeing  ! 
Bones  of  the  Prophet's  vision 

Warmed  into  bein    ! 


Transformed  he  saw  them  passing 

Their  new  life's  portal  ; 
Almost  it  seemed  the  mortal 

Put  on  the  immortal. 
No  more  with  the  beasts  of  burden, 

No  more  with  stone  and  clod, 
But  crowned  with  glory  and  honor 

In  the  image  of  God  ! 

There  was  the  human  chattel 

Its  manhood  taking  ; 
There,  in  each  dark,  bronze  statue, 

A  soul  was  waking  ! 


78  HOWARD    AT    ATLANTA. 

The  man  of  many. battles, 

With  tears  his  eyelids  pressing, 

Stretched  over  those  dusky  foreheads 
His  one-armed  blessing. 

And  he  said :  "  Who  hears  can  never 

Fear  for  or  doubt  you ; 
What  shall  I  tell  the  children 

Up  North  about  you  ? " 
Then  ran  round  a  whisper,  a  murmur, 

Some  answer  devising ; 
And  a  little  boy  stood  up :  "  Massa, 

Tell  'em  we  're  rising  ! " 

O  black  boy  of  Atlanta! 

But  half  was  spoken  : 
The  slave's  chain  and  the  master's 

Alike  are  broken. 


HOWARD    AT    ATLANTA.  79 

The  one  curse  of  the  races 

Held  both  in  tether: 
They  are  rising,  —  all  are  rising, 

The  black  and  white  together! 

O  brave  men  and  fair  women ! 

Ill  comes  of  hate  and  scorning: 
Shall  the  dark  faces  only 

Be  turned  to  morning  ?  — 
Make  Time  your  sole  avenger, 

All-healing,  all-redressing ; 
Meet  Fate  half-way,  and  make  it 

A  joy  and  blessing ! 


TO    LYDIA    MARIA    CHILD, 

ON   READING  HER  POEM   IN   "THE   STANDARD." 

r  I  ^HE  sweet  spring  day  is  glad  with  music, 

But  through  it  sounds  a  sadder  strain ; 
The  worthiest  of  our  narrowing  circle 
Sings  Loring's  dirges  o'er  again. 

O  woman  greatly  loved !  I  join  thee 
In  tender  memories  of  our  friend  ; 

With  thee  across  the  awful  spaces 
The  greeting  of  a  soul  I  send ! 

What  cheer  hath  he?     How  is  it  with  him? 

Where  lingers  he  this  weary  while  ? 
Over  what  pleasant  fields  of  Heaven 

Dawns  the  sweet  sunrise  of  his  smile  ? 


TO    LYDIA    MARIA    C'HILD.  8 1 

Does  he  not  know  our  feet  are  treading 
The  earth  hard  down  on  Slavery's  grave  ? 

That,  in  our  crowning  exultations, 

We  miss  the  charm  his  presence  gave  ? 

Why  on  this  spring  air  comes  no  whisper 

From  him  to  tell  us  all  is  well  ? 
Why  to  our  flower-time  comes  no  token 

Of  lily  and  of  asphodel  ? 

I  feel  the  unutterable  longing, 

Thy  hunger  of  the  heart  is  mine  ; 
I  reach  and  grope  for  hands  in  darkness, 

My  ear  grows  sharp  for  voice  or  sign. 

Still  on  the  lips  of  all  we  question 

The  finger  of  God's  silence  lies  ; 
Will -the  lost  hands  in  ours   be  folded? 

Will  the  shut  eyelids  ever  rise  ? 

4*  F 


82  TO    LYDIA    MARIA    CHILD. 

O  friend!  no  proof  beyond  this  yearning, 
This  outreach  of  our  hearts,  we  need  ; 

God  will  not  mock  the  hope  He  giveth, 
No  love  He  prompts  shall  vainly  plead. 

Then  let  us  stretch  our  hands  in  darkness, 
And  call  our  loved  ones  o'er  and  o'er ; 

Some  day  their  arms  shall  close  about  us, 
And  the  old  voices  speak  once   more. 

No  dreary  splendors  wait  our  coming 
Where  rapt  ghost  sits  from  ghost  apart ; 

Homeward  we  go  to  Heaven's  thanksgiving, 
The  harvest-gathering  of  the  heart. 


THE    PRAYER-SEEKER. 

A   LONG  the  aisle  where  prayer  was  made 

A  woman,  all  in  black  arrayed, 
Close-veiled,  between  the  kneeling  host, 
With  gliding  motion  of  a  ghost, 
Passed  to  the  desk,  and  laid  thereon 
A  scroll  which  bore  these  words  alone, 
Pray  for  me  ! 

Back  from  the  place  of  worshipping 
She  glided  like  a  guilty  thing : 
The  rustle  of  her  draperies,  stirred 
By  hurrying  feet,  alone  was  heard  ; 
While,  full  of  awe,  the  preacher  read, 
As  out  into  the  dark  she  sped  : 
"  Pray  for  me  !  " 


84  THE    PRAYER-SEEKER. 

Back  to  the  night  from  whence  she  came, 
To  unimagined  grief  or  shame  ! 
Across  the  threshold  of  that  door 
None  knew  the  burden  that  she  bore ; 
Alone  she  left  the  written  scroll, 
The  legend  of  a  troubled  soul,  — 
Pray  for  me  ! 

Glide  on,  poor  ghost  of  woe  or  sin  ! 
Thou  leav'st  a  common  need  within  ; 
Each  bears,  like  thee,  some  nameless  weight, 
Some  misery  inarticulate, 
Some  secret  sin,  some  shrouded  dread, 
Some  household  sorrow  all  unsaid. 
Pray  for  its  ! 

Pass  on  !     The  type  of  all  thou  art, 
Sad  witness  to  the  common  heart  ! 


THE    PRAYER-SEEKER.  85 

With  face  in  veil  and  seal  on  lip, 
In  mute  and  strange  companionship, 
Like  thee  we  wander  to  and  fro, 
Dumbly  imploring  as  we  go  : 
Pray  for  us  ! 

Ah,  who  shall  pray,  since  he  who  pleads 
Our  want  perchance  hath  greater  needs  ? 
Yet  they  who  make  their  loss  the  gain 
Of  others  shall  not  ask  in  vain, 
And  Heaven  bends  low  to  hear  the  prayer 
Of  love  from  lips  of  self-despair  : 
Pray  for  us  ! 

In  vain  remorse  and  fear  and  hate 
Beat  with  bruised  hands  against  a  fate, 
Whose  walls  of  iron  only  move, 
And  open  to  the  touch  of  love. 


86  THE    PRAYER-SEEKER. 

He  only  feels  his  burdens  fall 
Who,  taught  by  suffering,  pities  all. 
Pray  for  us  ! 

He  prayeth  best  who  leaves  unguessed 
The  mystery  of  another's  breast. 
Why  cheeks  grow  pale,  why  eyes  o'erflow, 
Or  heads  are  white,  thou  need'st  not  know. 
Enough  to  note  by  many  a  sign 
That  every  heart  hath  needs  like  thine. 
Pray  for  us! 


POEMS 


FOR    PUBLIC    OCCASIONS. 


A   SPIRITUAL   MANIFESTATION 

AT    THE    PRESIDENT'S    LEVEE,    BROWN    UNIVERSITY, 

29TH   6TH    MONTH,    1870. 

HPO-DAY  the  plant  by  Williams  set 

Its  summer  bloom  discloses; 
The  wilding  sweet-brier  of  his  prayers 
Is  crowned  with  cultured  roses. 

Once  more  the  Island  State  repeats 

The  lesson  that  he  taught  her, 
And  binds  his  pearl  of  charity 

Upon  her  brown-locked  daughter. 

Is  't  fancy  that  he  watches  still 
His  Providence  plantations  ? 


9<D  A    SPIRITUAL    MANIFESTATION. 

That  still  the  careful  Founder  takes 
A  part  on  these  occasions  ? 

Methinks  I  see  that  reverend  form, 
Which  all  of  us  so  well  know : 

He  rises  up  to  speak;  he  jogs 
The  presidential  elbow. 

"  Good  friends,"  he  says,  "  you  reap  a  field 

I  sowed  in  self-denial, 
For  toleration  had  its  griefs 

And  charity  its  trial. 

"Great  grace,  as  saith  Sir  Thomas  More, 
To  him  must  needs  be  given 

Who  heareth  heresy  and  leaves 
The  heretic  to  Heaven ! 


A    SPIRITUAL    MANIFESTATION. 

"  I  hear  again  the  snuffled  tones, 

I  see  in  dreary  vision 
Dyspeptic  dreamers,  spiritual  bores,    !  ] ; 

And  prophets  with  a  mission. 

"  Each  zealot  thrust  before  my  eyes 

His  Scripture-garbled  label ; 
All  creeds  were  shouted  in  my  ears 

As  with  the  tongues  of  Babel. 

"  Scourged  at  one  cart-tail,  each  denied 

The  hope  of  every  other  ; 
Each  martyr  shook  his  branded  fist 

At  the  conscience  of  his  brother !      1  '  , 

"  How  cleft  the  dreary  drone  of  man 
The  shriller  pipe  of  woman, 


Q2  A    SPIRITUAL    MANIFESTATION. 

As  Gorton  led  his  saints  elect, 
Who  held  all  things  in  common  ! 

"  Their  gay  robes  trailed  in  ditch  -and  swamp, 
And,  torn  by  thorn  and  thicket,- 

The  dancing-girls  of  Merry  Mount 
Came  draggling  to  my  wicket. 

"  Shrill  Anabaptists,  shorn  of  ears  ; 

Gray  witch-wives,  hobbling  slowly ; 
And  Antinomians,  free  of  law, 

Whose  very  sins  were  holy. 

"  Hoarse  ranters,  crazed  Fifth  Monarchists, 
Of  stripes  and  bondage  braggarts, 

Pale  Churchmen,  with  singed  rubrics  snatched 
From  Puritanic  fagots. 


A    SPIRITUAL    MANIFESTATION.  -  93 

"And  last,  not  least,  the  Quakers  came, 
With  tongues  still  sore  from  burning, 

The  Bay  State's  dust  from  off  their  feet 
Before  my  threshold  spurning ; 

"A  motley  host,  the  Lord's  debris, 

Faith's  odds  and  ends  together  ; 
Well  might  I  shrink  from  guests  with  lungs 

Tough  as  their  breeches  leather ! 

"  If,  when  the  hangman  at  their  heels 
Came,  rope  in  hand,  to  catch  them, 

I  took  the  hunted  outcasts  in, 
I  never  sent  to  fetch  them. 

« 

"  I  fed,  but  spared  them  not  a  whit ; 
I  gave  to  all  who  walked  in, 


94  A    SPIRITUAL    MANIFESTATION. 

Not  clams  and  succatash  alone, 
But  stronger  meat  of  doctrine. 

"  I  proved  the  prophets  false,  I  pricked 

The  bubble  of  perfection, 
And  clapped  upon  their  inner  light 

The  snuffers  of  election. 

"And,  looking  backward  on  my  times, 
One  thing,  at  least,  I  'm  proud  for  ; 

I  kept  each  sectary's  dish  apart, 
And  made  no  spiritual  chowder. 

"  Where  now  the  blending  signs  of  sect 
Would  puzzle  their  assorter, 

The  dry-shod  Quaker  kept  the  land, 
The  Baptist  held  the  water. 


A   SPIRITUAL    MANIFESTATION.  95 

"A  common  coat  now  serves  for  both, 

The  hat 's  no  more  a  fixture  ; 
And  which  was  wet  and  which  was  dry, 

Who  knows  in  such  a  mixture  ? 

"Well!  He  who  fashioned  Peter's  dream 

To  bless  them  all  is  able  ; 
And  bird  and  beast  and  creeping  thing 

Make  clean  upon  His  table  ! 

"  I  walked  by  my  own  light ;  but  when 

The  ways  of  faith  divided, 
Was  I  to  force  unwilling  feet 

To  tread  the  path  that  I  did? 

"  I  touched  the  garment-hem  of  truth, 
Yet  saw  not  all  its  splendor  ; 


96  A    SPIRITUAL    MANIFESTATION. 

I  knew  enough  of  doubt  to  feel 
For  every  conscience  tender. 

"  God  left  men  free  of  choice,  as  when 
His  Eden-trees  were  planted  ; 

Because  they  chose  amiss,  should  I 
Deny  the  gift  He  granted  ? 

"  So,  with  a  common  sense  of  need, 
Our  common  weakness  feeling, 

I  left  them  with  myself  to  God 
And  His  all-gracious  dealing ! 

"  I  kept  His  plan  whose  rain  and  sun 
To  tare  and  wheat  are  given  ; 

And,  if  the  ways  to  hell  were  free, 
I  left  them  free  to  heaven ! " 


A   SPIRITUAL    MANIFESTATION.  97 

Take  heart  with  us,  O  man  of  old, 

Soul-freedom's  brave  confessor, 
So  love  of  God  and  man  wax   strong, 

Let  sect  and  creed  be  lesser. 


The  jarring  discords  of  thy  day 
In  ours  one  hymn  are  swelling; 

The  wandering  feet,  the  severed 
All  seek  our  Father's  dwelling. 


And  slowly  learns  the  world  the  truth 
That  makes  us  all  thy  debtor,  — 

That  holy  life  is  more  than  rite, 
And  spirit  more  than  letter  ; 

That  they  who  differ  pole-wide  serve 
Perchance  the  common  Master, 

5  G 


98  A    SPIRITUAL    MANIFESTATION. 

And  other  sheep  He  hath  than  they 
Who  graze  one  narrow  pasture ! 

For  truth's  worst  foe  is  he  who  claims 

To  act  as  God's  avenger, 
And  deems,  beyond  his  sentry-beat, 

The  crystal  walls  in  danger! 

Who  sets  for  heresy  his  traps 
Of  verbal  quirk  and  quibble, 

And  weeds  the  garden  of  the  Lord 
With  Satan's  borrowed  dibble. 

To-day  our  hearts  like  organ  keys 
One  Master's  touch  are  feeling ; 

The  branches  of  a  common  Vine 
Have  only  leaves  of  healing. 


A    SPIRITUAL    MANIFESTATION.  99 

Co-workers,  yet  from  varied  fields, 

We  share  this  restful  nooning  ; 
The  Quaker  with  the  Baptist  here 

Believes  in  close  communing. 


Forgive,  dear  saint,  the  playful  tone, 
Too  light  for  thy  deserving ; 

Thanks  for  thy  generous  faith  in  man, 
Thy  trust  in  God  unswerving. 

Still  echo  in  the  hearts  of  men 
The  words  that  thou  hast  spoken  ; 

No  forge  of  hell  can  weld  again 
The  fetters  thou  hast  broken. 

The  pilgrim  needs  a  pass  no  more 

From  Roman  or  Genevan ; 
Thought-free,  no  ghostly  tollman  keeps 

Henceforth  the  road  to  Heaven ! 


"THE    LAURELS." 


AT    THE   TWENTIETH   AND    LAST    ANNIVERSARY. 


M  these  wild  rocks  I  look  to-day 
O'er  leagues  of  dancing  waves,  and  see 
The  far,  low  coast-line  stretch  away 
To  where  our  river  meets  the  sea. 

The  light  wind  blowing  off  the  land 
Is  burdened  with  old  voices  ;  through 

Shut  eyes  I  see  how  lip  and  hand 
The  greeting  of  old  days  renew. 

O  friends  whose  hearts  still  keep  their  prime, 
Whose  bright  example  warms  and  cheers, 


"THE    LAURELS.  IOI 

Ye  teach  us  how  to  smile  at  time, 
And  set  to  music  all  his  years! 

I  thank  you  for  sweet  summer  days, 
For  pleasant  memories  lingering  long, 

For  joyful  meetings,  fond  delays, 

And  ties  of  friendship  woven  strong. 

As  for  the  last  time,  side  by  side, 
You  tread  the  paths  familiar  grown, 

I  reach  across  the  severing  tide, 

And  blend  my  farewells  with  your  own. 

Make  room,  O  river  of  our  home ! 

For  other  feet  in  place  of  ours, 
And  in  the  summers  yet  to  come, 

Make  glad  another  Feast  of  Flowers  ! 


102  "THE   LAURELS." 

Hold  in  thy  mirror,  calm  and  deep, 
The  pleasant  pictures  thou  hast  seen ; 

Forget  thy  lovers  not,  but  keep 

Our  memory  like  thy  laurels  green. 
ISLES  OF  SHOALS,  ;th  mo.,  1870. 


HYMN 

FOR    THE    CELEBRATION    OF    EMANCIPATION    AT 
NEWBURYPORT. 

"NT  OT  unto  us  who  did  but  seek 

The  word  that  burned  within  to  speak, 
Not  unto  us  this  day  belong 
The  triumph  and  exultant  song. 

Upon  us  fell  in  early  youth 
The  burden  of  unwelcome  truth, 
And  left  us,  weak  and  frail  and  few, 
The  censor's  painful  work  to  do. 

Thenceforth  our  life  a  fight  became, 

The  air  we  breathed  was  hot  with  blame; 


IO4  HYMN. 

For  not  with  gauged  and  softened  tone 
We  made  the  bondman's  cause  our  own. 

We  bore,  as  Freedom's  hope  forlorn, 
The  private  hate,  the  public  scorn  ; 
Yet  held  through  all  the  paths  we  trod 
Our  faith  in  man  and  trust  in  God. 

We  prayed  and  hoped  ;  but  still,  with  awe, 
The  coming  of  the  sword  we  saw ; 
We  heard  the  nearing  steps  of  doom, 
We  saw  the  shade  of  things  to  come. 

In  grief  which,  they  alone  can  feel 
Who  from  a  mother's  wrong  appeal, 
With  blended  lines  of  fear  and  hope 
We  cast  our  country's  horoscope. 


HYMN.  %  105 

For  still  within  her  house  of  life 
We  marked  the  lurid  sign  of  strife,     * 
And,  poisoning  and  imbittering  all, 
We  saw  the  star  of  Wormwood  fall. 

• 

Deep  as  our  love  for  her  became 
Our  hate  of  all  that  wrought  her  shame, 
And  if,  thereby,  with  tongue  and  pen 
We  erred,  —  we  were  but  mortal  men. 

We  hoped  for  peace  ;  our  eyes  survey 
The  blood-red  dawn  of  Freedom's  day : 
We  prayed  for  love  to  loose  the  chain ; 
'Tis  shorn  by  battle's  axe  in  twain! 

Nor  skill  nor  strength  nor  zeal  of  ours 

Has  mined  and  heaved  the  hostile  towers ; 

5* 


IO6  HYMN. 

Not  by  our  hands  is  turned  the  key 
That  sets  the  sighing  captives  free. 

A  redder  sea  than  Egypt's  wave 
Is  piled  and  parted  forx  the  slave  ; 
A  darker  cloud  moves  on  in  light ; 
A  fiercer  fire  is  guide  by  night ! 

The  praise,  O  Lord !  is  Thine  alone, 
In  Thy  own  way  Thy  work  is  done ! 
Our  poor  gifts  at  Thy  feet^we  cast, 
To  whom  be  glory,  first  and  last ! 
1865. 

THE    END. 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


u 


< 


12 


8. 


. 


